Friday, December 30, 2011

My 100th post and a happy new years to all!

Today marks my 100th post as a blogger. I originally planned to just post a picture of the penis-shaped red pepper I found on my salad yesterday, but now I think post 100 might be a good time to reflect back on 2011, and look ahead to 2012. (That, and Charming was not super-impressed by the penis pepper.)

Everyone knows bad things happen in threes, so we had our requisite 3 tragedies in 2011, with the passing of my grandfather, my step-brother, and Charming’s uncle. Please stop dying, people, my heart can’t handle much more.

I still haven’t been made permanent at my job, despite being here on a contract basis for a year and 4 months now. I live 3 months at a time, holding my breath, never sure if or when I’m going to be thrust unexpectedly into the ranks of the unemployed.

I know how fortunate Charming and I are to both be gainfully employed, at positions we more or less enjoy, in this economy, but the lack of permanency and benefits and PTO means our lives are basically on hold. We can’t buy a house, we can’t travel as much as we’d like (when we do, it costs me more than just the airfare), I can’t afford Invisalign to fix my vampire tooth, and I have to try extra hard not to get hit by a car while biking. I know things could be so much worse, and I know these are #firstworldproblems, but I want to do so much more.

I also took that delightfully graceful tumble off my bike, which left me with a permanent scar on my nose and my right knee. I still can’t kneel on the right knee, so whenever I have to get down on the ground, I look like I’m about to do some Tebowing.

But 2011 had some perks as well.

Obviously, Charming and I got engaged.

What, you thought I’d miss this opportunity to post more gratuitous engagement photos?


While I’m still working through some of my own issues, I know I love this guy (and the fact that he lets me post pictures of him even if he thinks they make him look chunky) and I’m so excited to get married and have a house and a dog and dodge the ‘when are you having kids?!’ question for a few years before we start a family.

2012 will mark the first time I’m able to say “we’re getting married next year!” Which is super-exciting, except for that whole I-actually-have-to-plan-the-wedding-now thing.

And because one man in my life isn’t enough, I also started leasing a gorgeous gelding named Namequest. After 11 years of mainly riding my own horse, Windsor, Quest is pushing me outside my comfort zone and teaching me to be a better rider. And all without dumping by chunky rear in the dirt (yet). I’m so thrilled to be riding again (it keeps me sane[r]), and I’m hoping to maybe compete with him in 2012.

We’ve got a lot to look forward to in 2012, with a good friend’s wedding, planning our own wedding and a trip to Disney (can you believe I’ve never been? My parents were just trying to stunt my growth).

But most importantly to me, in 2012 (August, I hope) I’ll finally finish this 3 year crazy-fest of tears and stress and ridiculousness that is my Masters degree. I’m going to bust my butt working full time and taking two classes a semester this spring and over the summer so that I can be done and finally have the credentials to maybe possibly start earning the kind of salary I’d like to be earning.

It has been an incredible amount of hard work, peppered with fits of mind-numbing stress and anxiety and screaming and whining, but the end is in sight. Charming may be even more relieved when I’m finished than I will.

As for other personal goals in 2012? I’m going to let Jillian Michaels kick my ass with her 30 Day Shred DVD, and I’m really, hopefully, honestly going to start writing more for fun. That was the whole purpose of starting this blog in the first place – to provide a venue to display character sketches, plot lines, short stories, etc. Obviously that idea fizzled out like Herman Cain’s campaign after the public exposure of his hookers. But next year – next year it’s back like Newt Gingrich with a cancer-free wife.

So a million billion thank yous to everyone who has read my blog, commented, or just ended up here by accident while looking for Nazi women in waders- just knowing that someone is listening out there in internet-land gives me the courage to keep throwing my verbal nonsense out into cyberspace.

I hope you all have a wonderful, safe and very sparkly New Years, and if you get a chance, turn on the Liberty Bowl tomorrow and look for me in the crowd – I’ll be the really cold one. Go ‘Dores!

Aaand the penis pepper photo. I couldn’t resist. I may have the sense of humor of a 12 year old boy.


Thursday, December 29, 2011

Airing [some of] our dirty laundry

So I have a little bit of a concern related to Charming and our upcoming (ok, year and a half away) nuptials. And I’m doing what any sane bride-to-be would do – throwing it out there in public to gather the collective wisdom of strangers and my blogger-friends.

Charming does read this blog, so I’m keeping that in mind, but I think that’s a good thing, in a way. I can express my concerns in writing better than I can when he’s charmingly tipsy and threatening me with kissy showers.

So Charming has this friend from long, long ago (not the same friend who crossed the line back at the wee beginnings of my blogging career) – we’ll call this friend “E.”

Charming and E never dated (to the best of my knowledge…) but they’ve been friends since high school and still keep in touch sparingly. I have absolutely zero problems with Charming having female friends – his personality and ease in talking to people is one of the things that attracted me, so why wouldn’t it attract other females? – but I do have a problem when his relationship with the girl threatens some aspect of his relationship with me.

Still with me? Sorry, I’m trying to make this clearer.

So Charming and E talk on the phone and Gchat occasionally, and maybe meet up once or twice a year if they happen to be in the same state at the same time.

Back when we were living in Austin, Charming and I were having some problems in our relationship (I’ll take the credit for most of them – yay, panic attacks – but he contributed as well), so instead of talking to me about our problems, Charming talked to E. He even told her in no uncertain terms at one point that we were ‘not getting married anytime soon.’

And while he was technically correct (4+ years from the conversation is not ‘soon’), those are things he should have been discussing with me, not with someone – a female someone – whom I’ve never met.

He was also flirtily amazed that she checks the ESPN website occasionally to keep up on sports. Because, as he told her, I only care about the Ravens and am not really a sports person. Nevermind that I attended nearly every home basketball game in college, plus some road games, actually know the rules of CFL football, play fantasy football, and asked for college bowl game tickets instead of jewelry for Hanukkah.

So a) he’s wrong, and b) it still makes my stomach churn and my heart hurt to think of him comparing me to her and finding me lacking. Why exactly are you marrying me, if that’s the case?

So that brings me to the present – I’ve still never met this girl, I don’t trust her, and my self-destructive, miserably-low self-esteem means I still have a tiny, niggling, stomach-churning little worry that makes me wonder if he ever wonders if she’s the one that got away.

And on top of that, he’s already assured her that she and her boyfriend are invited to the wedding. Without discussing it with me. So now my family and I have to pay to feed and entertain a guest who could potentially make me very uncomfortable/unhappy at my own wedding. Maybe it’s my anxiety-demon rearing it’s ugly head, but I’m a bit concerned that this wouldn’t bode well for our future together.

Oddly enough, just 2 weeks ago, my mom – somewhat randomly – gave us the advice to make sure neither of us invited any ex-boyfriends or girlfriends to the wedding. My dad did that to her, and now they’re divorced.

I know E isn’t technically an ex-girlfriend, but she gives me that same icky feeling inside. And when I’ve tried discussing this with Charming, he just insists that I’ll like E. Honestly, I’m not sure if I could even if I wanted to, given all the background stuff I just rambled on about.

So what do you guys think? What do I do? Do I have to just swallow some Xanax my pride and keep her (and her plus 1, apparently) on the guest list? He assures me that he loves me, and he’s marrying me, and I know we’ve been through so much together and only come out stronger, but this is really plaguing me.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Why are things I’m afraid of so attracted to me?

Charming and I spent Christmas with his family in Miami (not to make you jealous, but it was 85 and lovely the entire time), and took engagement photos with his Uncle J the day before Christmas Eve.

I’m not a super photogenic person – and this is not a ‘fishing for compliments’ kind of thing – so pictures are always a wee bit traumatic for me. I’m attractive enough in real life, but when you try to capture me on film (er, digital – sorry, I’m old school), my vampire tooth lights up like a glowstick and protrudes halfway out of my mouth, my eyes go off in two different directions and my hair becomes possessed by the spirit of the 80s hairband era. Photoshop is my friend.

You thought I was exaggerating?


So I was anxious to begin with, and it was only compounded by the devil-bird that proceeded to tail us for over an hour. I hate all flying things – house flies, mosquitos, butterflies, airplanes – but flying things with sharp beaks are even worse.

Apparently Ibises are cattle birds, so they like to attach themselves to herds and follow them around. We were definitely a herd, with our entourage of photographer (Uncle J), photographers’ assistant (Aunt C), designated sunglasses-and-purse-holder (Charming’s Little Brother), and Charming’s mom and Aunt Bee (this is her actual real-life nickname, but not actual name, so I’m ok using it, I think).

So this stupid thing followed us around, eying my ankles like Charles Barkley at a buffet after 6 weeks on Weight Watchers.

Charming did his best to protect me, but all the shooing in the world just succeeded in annoying the crap out of the bird. Because clearly, the bird was the one who should have been annoyed.



There may also be video evidence of my fear of this bird. If I come across it, I plan to destroy it.

Charming and the stupid bird got along just fine.

Here they discuss the merits of lizards and anoles as pets versus dinner.


The bird traipsed along after us from location to location, snatching up little lizards and crushing their tiny, squirmy bodies in his beak before swallowing them still half alive. I like nature and shit, but this was a little too Discovery Channel for my tastes.

Finally the bird left us for a couple of college-aged guys – the ungrateful slut. Not that I was sad to see him/her/it go.

I won’t turn this into a gratuitous slideshow of my fabulous engagement photos, but out of over 200 images, Uncle J actually managed to catch me several times not looking like a feral wildebeest. It was magic.



I hope you all had a lovely Christmas/holiday/whatever as well!

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Happy Holidays, from the Jewish not-scrooge



For my goyim (non-Jew) friends out there, tonight is the 3rd night of Hanukah (Chanukah, Hannukah, whatever), and I’m sad to report that I’ve been a complete and utter lazy bum about it.

Partially because I lack the willpower and motivation to fight my way through the mountain of half-unpacked boxes, broken suitcases and plastic tubs full of baseball hats that is our storage closet to find the menorah. But also because it’s hard to get excited about a holiday that no one else around here seems to notice.

Every shopping center and place of business is cheerfully piping enough Christmas music to make even the jolliest of elves a little twitchy with the box cutters.

My office has a ‘non-denominational’ display of dingy-white polar bears who look like they could desperately use a coke. Poor things – what kind of holiday is this anyway, without over-caffeinated bears who look cuddly but actually want to maul you to death?

But nowhere have I seen a menorah, or a dreidel or a single package of those homages to our greedy* and gluttonous nature: the golden-wrapped chocolate coins.

* I can say it and its not racist, cause I’m Jewish. But don’t you dare say it or I’ll go all warrior-Maccabee on you.

All my Jew-friends are having Jew-parties up in Pikesville, the Jew-center of Baltimore, but I’m stuck down here in DC (and off to Miami tomorrow) as far from all the Jew-y-ness as possible.

I want to fry some potatoes into delicious oil-soaked latkes, and drown them in sour cream, then eat them all, because every good Jew knows that calories don’t count when you’re celebrating a thousands-of-years-old miracle. We did have some latkes this weekend at my mom’s house, but I want to make them myself, and burn my fingers and tongue eating them when they’re still bubbling from the hot oil. The Latke Lisp is totally worth it.

Then I want to eat sticky, jelly-filled doughnuts and hope that miracle carries over to not making my skin look like I have leprosy. Then I want to play dreidel, because every Jewish child is taught at a very young age the value and joy of gambling and taking money from your friends. A joy that doesn’t fade over the years.

But alas, the food stores here don’t have displays of Jerusalem-dipped wax candles, dreidel-shaped placemats, endless piles of hard chocolate coins and Muttel the Mutt Menorahs.



Nothing to get me excited about being a part of a small but exclusive club of big-nosed, poufy-haired chosen people. I’m not a complete Jewish scrooge – I don’t begrudge anyone their Christmas or Kwanzaa fun – I just wish I could get a little ‘Happy Hanukah!’ – maybe even with a real ‘cchhhh’ at the beginning – every once in a while. Happy Holidays just doesn’t quite cut it.

So this year I celebrate Christmas with my future in-laws, and maybe next year we’ll have a house so I can do this Hanukah shit up right. Or at least light some stuff on fire and eat a lot of trans fat. Mmm miracle-weight gain.

Hope you all have a wonderful holiday, whichever one you choose to celebrate, and however you choose to do so!

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The PayPal shenanigans continue

So to continue the PayPal saga, I decided to give them a call, after 13 days of no response to my last email.

After several moments winding my way through a cranky voice-recognition system, I finally got a customer service rep on the phone. I think he said his name was Islam, but I’m not sure about that.

I explained the situation to Islam (Isram?), though I’m sure it was on the computer screen in front of him, and politely requested that he lift the hold.

“Honestly, ma’am, I’m not gonna be able to lift this hold.”

So I thanked him for his time and requested to speak to a supervisor.

After several more minutes on hold, I got Tony the Supervisor on the phone.



I gave Tony the Supervisor a brief synopsis, and then paused to allow him to launch into his speech.

He apologized (!) first, about the wording of the email, which you’ll remember from my last post, was not written by a native English speaker.

He wanted to assure me that there was “no risk from chargebacks or claims, but we’re more concerned about the risk associated with your account.” Oh I see. You wrote that last letter. Good work on your accent, though – I’d have sworn you were from Pennsylvania or something.

Then he went on to explain that this process is “a newer initiative at PayPal, it’s been around for 18 – 20 months and it’s a currently evolving process. More and more accounts are being placed in that process as we move forward with it.”

Translation: Sorry, guys, more and more people are about to get screwed.

Finally, we got around to my problem. The hold was placed because of an arbitrary “risk assessment.”
Now by this, they don’t mean that I’ve ever had a “risk” – which they define as “Reversals, Chargebacks, Claims, fees, fines, penalties and other liability;” no, they actually mean I have “low feedback as a seller.”

And by “low” feedback, they don’t mean negative, just not a lot.

So my risk with PayPal is not associated with PayPal at all – it’s associated with their parent company, eBay, and, as I said before, the sole purpose seems to be to punish me to encourage me to use their service more.

The instant Tony the Supervisor paused for breath, I launched into my speech. I was on a roll.

“So let me get this straight, just to be clear, to encourage me to use your service more, you’re punishing me and making it exceedingly more difficult---“

He cut me off with “Would you like to talk about how to successfully work through these holds?”

I thought he was patronizing me, and after an indignant huff, began again.

“No, I do NOT want to talk about how I can jump through hoops to meet your arbitrary and unnecessary demands---“

“Hello, ma’am? Did you want to talk about how to work through the holds?”

“No! Are you listening to me? This is very poor customer service and I’m irate that---“

“Ma’am, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I can’t hear you. I’m going to have to terminate this call and ask you to call in again if you still have questions.”

…and then the call dropped.

And then I cursed, out loud, like a sailor, at work.

Great job, PayPal. Not only have you ruined my experience with you, you’ve also ruined my colleagues’ perception of me as that really sweet, quiet girl. [*snort*] Way to go, assholes.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Lipstick on a pig

The New York Times published a story in October about a study that found that people are more likely to respect/trust women who wear makeup.

After slathering some Revlon Orange Flip across my mouth, I got to thinking. Obviously, this is to a point – if you look like Lady Gaga on crack, no one’s going to trust you to not start humping that sign post, much less to handle basic office tasks.

I’m pretty enough, and I have decent skin except for four weeks a year (yeah, fuck you too, Aunt Flo – and also, if you’re not on Seasonique, whattheholyhelliswrongwithyou?) so I tend not to wear very much makeup.

When I was about 12, I remember my mom taking me to get a haircut. We were sitting in the car in front of the Hair Cuttery (I was stylin’, yo) and I pulled out a tube of Wet n’ Wild lipstick leftover from my makeup birthday party*. I always saw adults sitting in their cars, smearing bright red color across their lips (it was the 90s), so I wanted to be part of the club.

My mother, impatient with me for taking so long, sighed and said “No one wants to see a 12 year old painted up like a hooker.”

And cue overactive Jewish paranoia and 6+ year aversion to anything makeup-related.

Needless to say we never had one of those cute, sit-down, mother-daughter sessions on how to apply eyeliner without looking like Taylor Momsen a raccoon.

I did actually start wearing eyeliner around senior year of high school. One of my friends, L, looks like Angelina Jolie without the vial of blood, and always had perfectly-drawn eyeliner around her fabulous hazel/green eyes. So I decided I needed to look like her.

At her suggestion, I invested in my first tube of liquid eyeliner, smooshed my face up as close to the mirror as I could get, and started veeeerrryy caaaareeeffulllyyy lining my eyes. We went to the mall afterwards so I could wear my new look out.

In the hair salon, where we stopped so L could get some expensive shampoo (something I didn’t discover until much, much later in life, but that’s a story for another day), a woman stopped us, and stared intently at L before proclaiming “Wow! Your eyeliner is fantastic!”

Then she looked at me to see if I was sporting the same eyeliner magic. Her mouth opened, she blinked, we stared at each other for one too-long second, then she turned away from me and back to L. “No really, your eyes are amazing!”

Now, I find myself 27 years old, on the cusp of a wedding, and with absolutely no freaking clue what the purpose of bronzer is. Seriously? Is my face supposed to look tan even though the rest of me is ghost-white? Is channeling Snooki really a thing?

I haunt the CVS makeup section and stalk fashion blogs (see Revlon Orange Flip above) and frequently make purchases that end up sitting in my shiny silver makeup bag that I drag around everywhere and rarely ever open. But still, I have no idea what to do with this stuff on my face. And now the NY Times is telling me I’ll always be treated like a kid until I figure it out.

Do you guys agree? Do you look at women differently when they have properly-applied makeup as opposed to no makeup?

What are your makeup routines? How did you guys learn how to apply makeup? Will someone teach me how to find foundation that actually matches my skin??

*You would think this birthday party would have taught me how to apply makeup at least sufficiently, but you would be wrong. All it taught me was that blue eye shadow is best left in the 80s, and fortheloveofgod don’t stab yourself in the eye with that thing.

Friday, December 9, 2011

The morning commute

Maybe it’s the craptacularness of all this shit with PayPal, or maybe it’s the fact that Christmas music makes me want to stab my eardrums with a sharpened No. 2 pencil, but lately I’ve found that my tolerance for stupidity is right up there with Westboro church’s tolerance for gay rights.

So when the botox-faced bitch in the powder-blue Mustang rode up practically onto my back tire, honked at me, swerved around me, and then pulled over to yell at me, I was only too happy to unleash a teensy bit of my pent-up frustration. Or rage, if you will.



If you want to see a normally soft-spoken, shy, awkward chick turn into a wild-eyed, shrieking banshee, breaking the law and trying to kill me is probably the way to go.

The attendant at the parking lot Satan Bitch was blocking even came out to see what the fuss was all about. He was a smallish, older black man, and he just kept looking back and forth between us with big, sad doe eyes, and never said a word. We probably didn’t quite fit his fantasy version of a catfight. I’m hot and all, but this bitch had to have been about 50.

She kept screaming at me that I had no right to ride in the middle of the road and that… oh, that was her only argument. And it’s wrong.

First, there’s no shoulder on this very small road I was riding on. Second, when I’m riding in traffic, I’m a vehicle and have to be treated as one – that means safe following distances, etc. Third, it’s not my damned fault you spent so much time shellacking makeup onto your face this morning that now you’re running late. Fourth, you have a legal obligation not to endanger me – that means giving a minimum of three feet when passing and not trying to scare me by driving aggressively. And fifth, you’re still an ugly bitch.

I am so keying her car if I ever see her again. And that’s just because she drives a Ford.

Anyone else had any bad experiences on the road lately, with drivers or bicyclists?

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Cutlavallari. I'm calling it. You can thank me later, Perez Hilton.

Maybe you’re not one of those people who follows celebrity gossip the way Payton Manning follows an endorsement opportunity. Maybe you have a real job where you have to do actual work, instead of blogging and downsizing the Facebook and Twitter windows when your boss walks by.

In that case, you may have missed the news that Kristen Cavallari and Jay Cutler are re-engaged.

This is big news. I’m recently engaged so I stalk the crap out of other engaged couples to steal ideas, and Jay and I are BFFs.*

*Totally not true, but we did both go to Vanderbilt- that practically means we could have been friends. And in my world, that’s close enough.

I’m totally team Jaysten, though. KrisJay? Cutlavallari. Say that last one 3 times fast. It sounds Polish or something, doesn’t it?

Did I just make you talk to yourself?

I would say most people at Vanderbilt were moderately enthusiastic about Jay. Our football team was actually better at geology and art history than football, but Cutler did help us beat Tennessee at Tennessee for the first time in about a bajillion years.

[It probably didn’t hurt that the Tennessee football team was too busy picking the scabies out of their short and curlies to play (seriously, did everyone see that story about the lack of hygiene on the UT football team? We know y’all don’t know how to read, but you can’t even figure out how to use a bar of soap…?).]

Anyway, he probably never quite achieved the Tim Tebow status on campus that he dreamed of (or the born-again virginity – that’s a thing, right?), but he could party it up on occasion.

One night, he came back to campus late, and just a wee bit tipsy (we’ll assume he was 21 at the time, for the sake of his reputation). Oddly enough, he was alone – you’d think the star quarterback of even a mediocre college team might have some … say, feminine companionship… but he didn’t.

And then the trouble started.

His opponent was relentless – standing firm and unyielding against every blow Jay dealt. You have to be tough to play quarterback for a crappy football team in the scariest division in the NCAA (we look like pop warner leaguers against Alabama), but no matter how hard Jay fought, his adversary wouldn’t give.

The police were alerted, and they arrived quickly to separate the flailing, aggravated quarterback from his foe.

Jay fought valiantly, but unfortunately, that police blue light tower was the ultimate victor.



Poor Jay – hopefully he’ll have better luck keeping Kristen in line with his marriage. Best wishes to the happy couple…!

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

PayPal is screwing with me, too! (That means I'm famous, right?)

So many of you have probably been following the fuckery that PayPal has put Regretsy through.

What you didn’t know is that I, too, am as blogger-famous as Regretsy*, and have therefore been singled out for a poorly-worded and unjustified attack as well.

*This is probably not a true statement. I am, however, pretty awesome.

It all started on Nov. 29 when I got an email from PayPal, completely out of the blue, titled: “An important message about your PayPal account.”

I almost always delete this shit without reading, because it’s usually some nonsense that doesn’t apply to me, but for some reason, I read this one.

The email opens with:

“Starting 11/29/2011, money from payments you receive will be placed in a pending balance for up to 21 days. By doing this, we're making sure that there's enough money in your account to cover potential refunds or claims.

Even though you can't access the money right away, please ship orders quickly and communicate with your customers. After 21 days, you can withdraw money from each payment as long as the customer hasn't filed a dispute, chargeback, claim, return, or reversal.”


Ok, so you’re holding my money hostage, and I’m still required to provide excellent customer service to anyone I sell to, even though you’re no longer providing any sort of customer service to me. Alright, that’s fine. Why?

We reviewed your account and determined that there's a relatively higher than average risk of future transaction issues (such as claims, or chargebacks, or payment reversals).

Ah. Well. Now see, if that was true, I’d be fine [not totally fine, still pissed, but you know]. But I happen to know that I’ve never had a dispute/issue/risk/illicit affair of any sort with PayPal. So I emailed them a perfectly polite, reasonable letter [<-- not sarcasm] asking for more explanation. Today, I got this response back: My name is Ruby Ann from PayPal Consumer Support.

I am humbly requesting for you to extend your consideration and give us more understanding that we are doing this for the safety of all of your transactions within eBay and PayPal.


Hi Peggy Ruby Ann, thanks for using BabelFish translator. How’s the weather in India, today?

She continues with:

I appreciate the fact that you've been a valued member of eBay since December 1999. However, eBay detects that for the past 6 months you have a limited selling history, that's why they decided to put a temporary hold on your incoming payments for eBay items.

Oh! I see! So to encourage me to use eBay/PayPal more often, you decided to both punish me and make it considerably more frustrating and difficult! Yes, well that makes sense. If you’re a fucking communist.

And then it gets fun:

Like what you have said Heather, you rarely use PayPal and have never had an issue with payments or disputes, you are correct. That's one of the reason why your account is subjected for PayPal holds.

I have no words.

Oh wait, yes I do. Because I've never caused a problem, I'm suspicious and should be punished. That's how I plan to raise my children, too. Just beat the shit out of them randomly when they haven't done anything and they least suspect it - keeps them on their toes.

So that part earlier where you said you ‘reviewed my account and determined that there's a relatively higher than average risk of future transaction issues’ was based on the fact that I’ve NEVER HAD A PROBLEM BEFORE. EVER. How dare I be a conscientious, responsible, reputable member of your community. How. Dare. I.

Also, it’s ‘subjected to’ not, ‘for.’ Get a decent free translator service, bitch.

I plan to write back. Maybe I can convince her to send me a video of her head exploding when she gets confronted by my logic. Either that, or I’ll send her one of mine exploding when they inevitably refuse to lift this ridiculous hold.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

"'Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!' - wait, you mean we did that already?" - Bachmann

I was going to post a photo of the fun note I left yesterday for my evil, litterbug neighbors, but I am so, so much more excited about this:



My little mini hero there is speaking pretty quietly, so turn your volume up, but it’s so worth it.

Around the 0:30 second mark, he whispers to Hitler in a skirt Bachmann: “My mom is gay and she doesn’t need fixing.”

And we hereby have video proof that Bachmann is less qualified to run this country than an 8 year old boy.

Of course, this will probably just reinforce her belief in child labor.

Maybe once she’s done re-passing the anti-gay marriage bill that Minnesota already has, she’ll turn her attentions to really important issues. Like ending women’s suffrage. Or tearing down the Berlin Wall.



Monday, December 5, 2011

How do I make a blog title about gentrification, crotch weasels, and felonies?

Charming and I live in a neighborhood that’s in the process of ‘gentrifying.’ Which is a polite way of saying ‘get yourself some pepper spray and a good insurance policy while we finish kicking out the rest of the black people troublemakers.’

The neighborhood has changed a lot in the year and a half we’ve been crammed and cowering in our over $1300* a month basement apartment the size of a shoebox.

*Yes, I know you probably pay less than that for the mortgage on your 2000 sq foot home; if the only pond in the neighborhood wasn’t surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, I’d probably drown myself in it.

We now have two pizza places, a restaurant/bar, a yoga studio, a coffee shop, an organic pet store and enough liquor stores to keep the whole Lohan family in DUIs and rehab stints. And it’s practically a hipster paradise: artsy, off-the-beaten-path, and all the running from muggers keeps you below the requisite 2% body fat requirement.

We also have a bunch of little fucktwat kids who try to break into houses and apartments while you’re home (because the door is more likely to be unlocked) and run in and grab shit while you’re too stunned to do anything.

They tried that with us last Wednesday. Fortunately, my extreme paranoia common sense meant the door was locked, so they gave up and ran away, but I’ve scratched out “J. Crew sweaters” and put “gun!!” at the top of all my Hannukah lists.

I really wish I could have a conversation with the parents who raised these little sacks of anal-droppings. I use the term “raised” loosely, because I’m sure their mothers are too busy getting knocked up with the next little welfare meal ticket to watch them, and the fathers are still trying to learn how to count past 6 so they can figure out how many bastard offspring they’ve got.

Maybe some of these little sperm weasels who grow up to be murderers/serial killers/rapists/Congressmen do so because of mental illnesses or being forced to be on Toddlers and Tiaras reasons totally unrelated to their upbringing, but I think the vast majority of it has to do with parenting. Or lack thereof.

Screaming at your toddler in a coked-up haze to “shut the fuck up!” probably has some psychological ramifications for the kid. If I had to take a guess. Or better yet, completely ignoring the little monster while it’s running around and shrieking like Snooki turned loose at a frat party.

If you want to tell me it takes a village to raise a child, then I think the village (me) should get to have a hand in disciplining the child and the moron parent. I think a little quality time spent cleaning up the combination of piss, snot and diaper droppings from the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese’s with your tongue will cure you of the desire to let your little crotch monster run wild.

Unfortunately, if a drunk driver wraps their car around a tree, it’s called natural selection; if I wrap my hands around your little demon spawn’s throat, it’s called a felony. Go figure.